


First comes marriage, then comes love (Or: Grantaire's Guide to Not Getting Deported)

by oui_oui_mon_ami



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Enjolras, Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, background jbm courferre and marius/cosette, i guess?, many feelings are felt, not particularly plot relevant i just like to project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oui_oui_mon_ami/pseuds/oui_oui_mon_ami
Summary: Grantaire's Guide to Not Getting DeportedStep One: Keep it a secret until there’s barely enough time to do anything about it, then agree to a marriage of convenience with the smartass, annoying, handsome leader of the activist group you hang out with for some reasonStep Two: Have said activist group plan your wedding while you struggle with complicated feelings – but hey, at least you get free cakeStep Three: Do some more fake dating, realise your feelings with the help of your groomspeople, and then realise that this complicates the situation even more – but hey, there’s more discount foodStep Four: Get married without a hitch – until you accidentally confess your feelings on your wedding nightStep Five: Hope that everything will go back to normal, even though you know it won’t





	1. Step One: Keep it a secret until there’s barely enough time to do anything about it, then agree to a marriage of convenience with the smartass, annoying, handsome leader of the activist group you hang out with for some reason

**Author's Note:**

> first fic for this fandom yayyy bls let me know if i fuck up the characterisation i may know the musical off by heart but there are many things i have yet to learn 
> 
> there are references to past alcoholism and mentions of panic attacks scattered throughout fyi
> 
> enjoy :^)

Grantaire can’t quite believe the letter’s existence. He blinks once, twice, but nope, it’s still there. Crisp and white and official as it can get.

He knows he was stupid to believe that the letter would never arrive. He knows what immigration policies are like in France, and with his luck and income – not to mention the number of illegal activities he’s been involved in thanks to his friends – he was bound to get sent back to Canada at some point. No matter that he left there so young that he can barely remember the place.

And now that his full-time education has finished he has two months to move out of the country.

He sighs. His hand itches for a bottle, but he’s a few days from six months’ sobriety. He considers leaving the house and just seeing where his legs take him, but they’d probably take him over a bridge into the Seine right now. Not that he’d object to that happening-

No. Stop.

He can do something about this.

Can’t he?

He fires off a – strictly confidential – text to Bahorel because he knows he studied immigration law in second year and he also knows he won’t freak out like some of the others. Bahorel messages back a few minutes later, when Grantaire’s chugged a large mug of instant coffee, telling him to appeal to the immigration office. A few minutes after that his laptop pings – an email from Bahorel with a perfectly formatted formal request for an appeal. Grantaire feels his chest loosen a bit.

 _Thank you,_ Grantaire texts him. _Who knew having a lawyer friend would be so helpful?_

 _im not a lawyer_ , Bahorel replies. _i havent taken the bar exam, and i absolutely refuSE to do that so. i just know about all the dirty shit lawyers try to pull. but ur welcome._

_Dont tell anyone else about this, ok?_

_ok fam good luck w the appeal_

\---

Grantaire tries to forget about the whole thing. Well, he pins the letter to his corkboard, and then he pins the appeal rejection letter over it three weeks later, and then he tries to forget about the whole thing. Bahorel asks him what he wants to do next, and Grantaire just shrugs. All of the options sound expensive, and if there’s one thing Grantaire doesn’t have – which is part of the cause of this whole problem – it’s money.

With one month left on his residence permit, he starts looking for apartments in Montreal. He’s not surprised when none of them fit his budget.

It’s nearing two weeks until his departure date when he turns up to probably his last Les Amis meeting on his second bottle of wine. He’s disappointed in himself, yes, but that’s not exactly unusual.

Bahorel corners him in the back of the room. “You okay?” he asks. They both know the answer.

“Hey, d’you think they’ll provide in-flight entertainment? Free food? My own private jet to fly me across the Atlantic?” Grantaire knows he shouldn’t be joking about this, but he’s had a bottle and a half of wine and he _just doesn’t care anymore_.

Bahorel frowns, catches sight of the bottle in Grantaire’s hand, and takes a swig of his own drink. “I’m sure it’s not too late to find a lawyer, an actual, legal one, and take it to court.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No. I told you, it’s too expensive, and it’d be no use anyway. They’ve already made it pretty clear I don’t benefit this country in any way.”

Marius just so happens to be walking by them at that exact moment and stops, staring at Grantaire for a few seconds before realisation makes his eyes grow wide. “Don’t tell me,” he says, loud enough to turn a few others’ heads.

“Fine, I won’t,” Grantaire replies, deadpan, before lifting the bottle to his mouth.

“Tell you what?” Bossuet asks, approaching the little group alongside Feuilly, Joly and Jehan. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire says firmly.

Bahorel raises an eyebrow. “I think you should tell them,” he mutters. “They might be able to help.” His eyes are pleading, which is not an expression Grantaire has ever seen on Bahorel, nor ever wants to again, so he sighs.

“I may or may not be getting deported in two weeks,” he says quietly. The words are harder to get out than he thought. They weigh on his tongue.

Most of the small group are dumbfounded, which is fine by Grantaire, the last thing he wants is for anyone else to find out-

“You’re getting deported?” Jehan almost shouts, which just makes Grantaire want to jump out of the window because now everyone’s eyes are on him. Including the three at the front. Usually Grantaire likes the attention he gets from speaking out at meetings, but this attention is so much worse. He feels too visible.

“Like, back to Canada?” Combeferre asks. Grantaire nods.

“Why?” Bossuet asks.

“My residence permit isn’t getting renewed now that I’m out of full-time education.”

“When did you find out?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Have you appealed?” Joly asks.

“When do you have to leave?” Marius asks.

“We need to do something about this,” Jehan says.

“Storm the immigration office?” Feuilly suggests. That at least makes Grantaire chuckle dryly. As if _that_ would make the government want him to stay.

The questions keep coming and Grantaire sinks into a seat, drinking his wine. If he was sober, all these questions and voices would probably send him into a panic attack. Heck, even with a bottle and a half of alcohol in him, he’s close to hyperventilating. Eventually there’s a new voice from across the room, quiet but clear enough to keep Grantaire from zoning out.

“I didn’t know you were from Canada.”

The room falls silent and Grantaire stares at the source of the statement. Enjolras hasn’t moved from his spot behind his table, but he’s staring back at Grantaire and looking more broken than he’s ever seen him, even more than the first time a protest he’d arranged went south and ended up with Feuilly, Bahorel and Bossuet getting arrested. For some reason it makes Grantaire’s chest ache.

“So that’s why you always leave the protests when the police show up,” Enjolras says flatly.

Grantaire can’t deal with this. He can’t deal with Enjolras apologising for all the times he’s berated him for not pulling his weight, for turning up to meetings and pretending to support them only to watch from the sidelines whenever things go to shit, when really Grantaire is only saving himself and hating himself for it. He takes another gulp of his wine and sneers at Enjolras. “For someone who boasts of a dizzying intellect, Apollo, you’re not particularly observant.”

He knows it’s a low blow, but he doesn’t expect Enjolras to look even more hurt. He didn’t even think that was possible, but now their leader looks like he’s about to cry. Grantaire really can’t deal with this. “I’m going home,” he mutters, storming out the door before anyone can try and stop him. He can hear a few people call his name as he stumbles down the stairs, but he doesn’t turn back.

He lets his feet carry him back to his apartment where he finishes the bottle, and another one – the fancy wine that Combeferre had given him for his birthday that he’d been saving to take to a party or something. He checks the time – only ten o’clock, the meeting would have just finished by now. There are several missed calls and texts on his phone, but he turns it off and decides to start packing up his art supplies.

\---

Grantaire comes to slowly. He realises he’s sleeping on his sofa, which means he’s going to have neck pain for the rest of the day – or night? It’s still dark outside – and thinks to himself that he should probably put the sofa on Craigslist or something. Does he need to include a disclaimer about the inevitable neck and back pain that comes with sleeping on it?

Someone’s knocking on his door. Grantaire groans and rolls over. It’s probably his landlady- at three in the morning? Probably not then. Grantaire buries his face in a cushion and hopes whoever’s there will go away and let him sleep.

But no, the world just hates Grantaire because they’re still knocking two minutes later, even harder than before. Suddenly his stomach drops: what if the immigration agents have come early? He hasn’t even finished packing his art stuff – it’s all strewn across his living room floor, a total mess, from when he decided to take a quick break last night which turned into passing out on the sofa. The knocking still hasn’t stopped so Grantaire just decides to bite the bullet and stagger over to the door, still slightly drunk, and open it.

He doesn’t see immigration agents. What he does see is Enjolras. His hair is up in a messy bun and the dark rings under his half-open eyes are more pronounced than usual. He definitely hasn’t slept tonight. But somehow he still looks handsome. A hot mess, maybe.

A thought which Grantaire promptly shoves to the back of his mind as he opens his mouth to ask him what he’s doing here.

“Marry me,” Enjolras says before he can do so.

Grantaire can’t really do anything but stare after that opener. He blinks and clears his throat. “What?” he croaks out.

“Marry me.” Enjolras’ voice is very firm for the kind of statement he’s making.

“Well, I’d prefer it if you took me out to dinner first,” Grantaire says, getting at least some of his composure back (although he’s pretty sure he’s blushing right now. He hopes it’s too dark in the hallway for Enjolras to notice).

Enjolras gets that same look in his eyes that he gets whenever Grantaire speaks up from the back of a meeting, and Grantaire’s glad of a little normalcy in this conversation. “No, well, we can but…” he sighs. “Let me in and I’ll explain.”

Grantaire does because what else can you do when the leader of an activist group you hang out with for some reason turns up at your door and proposes?

Enjolras follows Grantaire into the kitchen as he starts to make coffee for the both of them. The alcohol is starting to wear off now, leaving behind what will become a splitting headache if he doesn’t get some caffeine in him soon.

He puts the coffee powder into the mugs and turns the kettle on before turning around to face Enjolras, who is still standing awkwardly in the doorway. Which is another weird thing about tonight because Enjolras never stands awkwardly. “Okay, spill,” Grantaire says.

“You said you tried to appeal for an extension on your residence permit, right?”

Grantaire frowns. He really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, especially since back at the Musain he was this close to a small panic attack and he wasn’t nearly as sober as he is now. But there’s no way out of this. “Yes, and they said in their reply that my income as a freelance artist isn’t steady enough to be of economic use. Can’t blame them, to be honest, but it means that to the government, I’m as good as unemployed.”

“But I’ve spent the last four hours researching immigration law, and you could get an extension based on marriage to a French citizen,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire’s eyes widen as Enjolras’ plan dawns on him. “You,” he breathes.

Enjolras shrugs, frowning. “You sound displeased.”

“Well, no, I’m just surprised you’d be willing to do that for me. We can barely last ten minutes together without ripping each other apart. Surely one of the other Amis would be better?”

“Considering they’re all in relationships already, I’m not sure they’d agree. Ferre actually took me ring shopping for Courf the other day, and although I’m fairly sure this’ll steal their thunder, I hardly think they’d mind since you wouldn’t have to move halfway across the world and miss their wedding.”

Grantaire is still in a state of shock. The kettle has finished boiling and he pours the water into the mugs. His back is to Enjolras so he can’t see him blushing (why is he blushing? Is it normal to blush when someone asks you to marry them? He wouldn’t know, would he?) “Would you really be willing to do that for me though?” he asks. “It’s… a commitment. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure we were friends.”

Enjolras joins him at the counter. He’s got that hurt look on his face again. “R…” he says softly. “I’ve considered you one of my closest friends for years, and I’m sorry if I haven’t shown that I feel that way. Just because we argue doesn’t mean we can’t get along. I’d do this for any of my friends.”

“Really?”

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire stirs milk and sugar into Enjolras’ coffee and they go through to the living room. “So we’re really doing this?” he asks. It sounds like a dumb idea, like the plot of a stupid rom-com, and it’ll only lead to one of them getting hurt. And he’s _straight_ , for god’s sake. But there doesn’t seem to be any other solution. “You do realise you’ll be married. To me. For at least two years.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Grantaire frowns at Enjolras, who looks back with a blank expression. “Well, it is. It’s _me_.”

Enjolras’ brow furrows. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit here.” He pauses. “Or you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“You got me.”

Enjolras laughs. It’s a nice sound. Grantaire wishes he could hear it more. “See, we’re not arguing right now.”

“I need a proper proposal though,” Grantaire says after a while.

“Sorry?”

“Well, I just think if we’re going to do this, we ought to do it right.”

“If we were doing it right, we probably should have started dating a couple years ago,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. “Wasn’t my proposal romantic enough for you?”

“What, you turning up exhausted at my door at three in the morning and basically demanding that I marry you? I practically swooned,” Grantaire deadpans. “I’ll be telling the story to our grandchildren and it’ll bring tears to their eyes.”

Enjolras scowls, but gets down on one knee in front of the sofa. He opens his mouth before frowning. “Oh my god, I don’t even think I know your first name!” Grantaire must raise an eyebrow at that because Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look, you probably don’t even know mine.”

Grantaire realises that he doesn’t, but like hell he’s going to admit it. “It’s Jean,” he guesses.

For a moment Enjolras looks dumbstruck before he narrows his eyes. “Okay, that’s not fair, you basically had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that right.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Don’t hate the player, hate the _name_.”

He can see Enjolras trying to hide a smile. “That was awful,” he says. “Okay, at least tell me yours now.”

“It’s Grantaire.”

“It’s not.”

“It is!”

“I am _not_ proposing to Grantaire Grantaire.”

“Well consider the marriage off then, because that’s my name.”

“ _R_.”

This is the second time tonight that someone’s looked at Grantaire with a pleading expression. He’s decided that he doesn’t like it. “You’ll hate it,” he says.

“Don’t be silly. It’s just a name.”

Grantaire sighs. “It’s Louis-François.”

Enjolras can’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding! And I thought _my_ name was too French.”

Grantaire hums. “Yeah, apparently my parents really wanted me to fit in with French society. They forgot, though, that I wasn’t born in the eighteenth century.”

Enjolras is still giggling. “Okay, well. Louis-François Grantaire, would you- I’m sorry, there’s no way that’s your name. _You_ , of all people. Grantaire Grantaire was more realistic.”

“I know. It’s a cruel joke, just like the rest of my life. Now can we move on?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Enjolras clears his throat. “Louis-François Grantaire, _R_ , would you make me the happiest man in France who is awake at this hour by becoming my husband and not getting deported?”

Grantaire grins. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” he replies.

“Good. Then it’s decided.” Enjolras stands up. “I’ll arrange a meeting at my place tomorrow to sort everything out. You should get some rest.”

“So should you,” Grantaire says.

“I’ll be fine. I’m going home to draft a letter to the immigration office.”

“We can do that in the morning. You need to go home and _sleep_.”

“I said I’ll be fine.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “When we’re married, there’ll be no more all-nighters for you.”

Enjolras crosses to the front door. “What about all-nighters _with_ you?” He ducks out of the flat with a wink, leaving Grantaire a bit speechless and definitely blushing.

Well, your friend implying something pretty dirty involving the two of you and _winking_ is bound to make you feel somewhat shocked, right?


	2. Step Two: Have said activist group plan your wedding while you struggle with complicated feelings – but hey, at least you get free cake

“We have made significant progress on Mission Keep R In France,” Enjolras announces to the group.

The others look confused. Grantaire doesn’t blame them: their plan is what most people would call ‘extreme’. “Really? Because last night we hit an awful lot of brick walls, so unless an idea came to you in a dream, I wouldn’t call any of that progress,” Courfeyrac says, still clearly pissed that he’s been summoned to a meeting at seven in the morning.

“Well, it didn’t come to me in a dream exactly,” Enjolras says, meeting Grantaire’s gaze. It doesn’t look like Enjolras has had any sleep at all in the few hours since they last spoke, but at least he’s washed his hair and drunk enough coffee to not pass out mid-sentence. “To cut a long story short, Grantaire and I are getting married.”

For some reason the Amis don’t react with a shocked silence, which is what Grantaire expected. Instead the room is filled with shouts of “congratulations!” and did Grantaire just see Combeferre hand Courfeyrac money?

Thankfully Enjolras seems just as puzzled as Grantaire. “We’re getting married in order for Grantaire to stay in France. _Not_ for any other reason,” he adds with a glare at Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who shrug innocently. “I’ve already mailed a new appeal letter to the immigration office, and I’m going to arrange an appointment at the city hall for a few days’ time.”

“Oh, no!” Jehan whines. “You need to have a proper wedding!”

“We really don’t,” Enjolras says, his cheeks going slightly pink. (Not that Grantaire can say anything, but from the back of the room his blush goes completely unnoticed.) “We don’t have the money or the time for a proper wedding. That effort can instead be put towards the cause.”

Jehan scoffs. “No offence, Enjolras, but screw the cause for one moment, I’m throwing you a proper wedding and there’s no two ways about it!”

By now Enjolras is bright red, although whether that’s out of embarrassment or anger at Jehan’s momentary disregard of justice and liberation, Grantaire can’t tell.

“I’ll help!” Marius calls.

“Dibs on Enjolras’ best man!” Courfeyrac shouts, resulting in a cry of protest from Combeferre.

It takes a while (and Enjolras climbing on his table) to calm the young men down. When they are finally quiet again, Enjolras continues. “The planning committee can meet some other time, if that’s what you really want to do with your spare time. We have other things to discuss. Grantaire needs help moving his belongings here, and I want to get that done as soon as possible. Today would be nice. And finally, we mustn’t let this distract us from next month’s rally. Keep making banners. Keep spreading the word. Just because I’m soon to be a married man doesn’t mean my focus is any less on the cause.”

Grantaire holds a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Oh, sweetheart, how can you say such things? How can you put your work above our marriage?”

Enjolras sticks his tongue out at him, a surprisingly childish response. “Okay, that’s all I wanted to talk about this morning. I suggest we start moving Grantaire’s things straightaway, yes?”

Courfeyrac, ever the night owl, groans. “A morning meeting and now manual labour? You’re making it very hard for me to be your best friend today, Enjolras.”

“You’re the one who wanted to be my best man,” Enjolras replies, smiling. Grantaire likes seeing him switch between Revolutionary Hero Enjolras to Sarcastic Friend Enjolras. “Come on.”

They spend the day hauling boxes and bits of furniture from Grantaire’s tiny studio to Enjolras’ more spacious apartment. Grantaire leaves the uncomfortable sofa and old bed behind: Enjolras has a spare bedroom with a much nicer bed and a living room with a much nicer sofa. He can see what he can get for them and maybe put it towards the wedding.

He tells Marius about this plan, who breaks into a grin. “So you _do_ want a nice wedding!” he exclaims, just quiet enough for no one else to hear.

Grantaire can’t hide it. He’s a bit of a romantic at heart. “Nothing much but… yeah, kind of. Go big or go home, right? Don’t tell Enjolras, though.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Marius says with a wink. “Although I’m pretty sure he also secretly wants a big do.”

And with the way Enjolras was blushing this morning, Grantaire can see how that could be true.

\---

The next day, Jehan takes them ring shopping. He leads them to a small boutique jewellery store nestled in an older part of the city. “Have fun, kids! But not too much fun, you’ve got a cake tasting appointment at one. Marius will text you the address!” And he skips back down the street.

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who looks nervous. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s just, kind of, sinking in, you know?”

“You know we can call this off, right?” Grantaire says, frowning. The last thing he wants to do is to pressure Enjolras into doing this.

“But we’re not going to,” Enjolras replies, that determined look he uses at rallies and meetings back on his face. He means business. “Let’s go buy some jewellery.”

To say that Grantaire feels out of place as soon as he enters the store would be an understatement. Places like this were not built for people like him. But he feels Enjolras take his hand, which shocks him just a little before he remembers they’re engaged and it would be easier to explain real love than “I was brought here from Quebec by my parents when I was four and now I’m in danger of being deported so my friend has agreed to marry me so that I can apply for citizenship in two years”. And besides, Enjolras’ hand in his is strangely grounding.

“Good morning gentlemen, can I help you with anything?” a woman asks.

“Yes, actually,” Enjolras says, sounding a lot more confident than Grantaire feels. “We’re engaged and we’d like to see some wedding rings. Would it be possible to look at some low-budget ones? We both have a lot of student debt, you see.”

“Congratulations! And of course, come right this way, we have a large selection of beautiful jewellery at a very reasonable price.” She leads them to one of the glass counters. “I’ll give you two a moment, do let me know if you’d like to examine any of our pieces in more detail.”

Grantaire winces at some of the numbers in the cabinet. He’d have to sell ten paintings in order to pay for some of this stuff.

“We can go somewhere else if you want,” Enjolras whispers. Their hands are still intertwined.

Grantaire is about to agree when he spots something in the corner of the glass case. A simple gold ring, plain except for a sun shape engraved on the front. It reminds him so much of Enjolras, straight to the point yet stunning, like he immediately draws the attention of a whole room. And beautiful.

Wait, _what_?

What is even more attractive is the price. 150 euros, fifty euros less than what someone gave him for his old sofa. Sure, it’s a stretch, but it’s perfect for Enjolras and totally worth it.

“Anything take your fancy?” the saleswoman says, returning to them.

“I like that one,” Grantaire says, pointing. “It reminds me of him.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras whip his head round to stare at him. He feels himself turning red.

“Ah, from our Celestial collection. An excellent choice.” She takes the ring out of the cabinet and offers it to Grantaire. “Here you have eighteen carat yellow gold, and you can engrave the inside if you want, with no extra charge. Elegant, just like your fiancé, I’m sure.”

“Tell that to him after three drinks,” Grantaire says. “What do you think?” he asks Enjolras.

He’s looking at Grantaire with a strange expression, like he’s never seen him before or something. “I like it,” he says softly.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen it up close yet, you’ve been too busy gawking at me.”

He expects Enjolras to blush, but instead he replies, “It doesn’t matter. I trust your opinion.”

“Bad idea,” Grantaire says.

“Well, you found me, so evidently your tastes can’t be that bad.”

“You’re right, I did a pretty good job there, didn’t I?”

And there, finally, is the blush Grantaire wanted. He turns back to the saleswoman apologetically. “I’ll take it,” he says.

“Excellent,” she replies before turning to Enjolras. “What about you, sir?”

“I like this one, with the crystals?” He points to a ring in the case. Grantaire’s eyes widen at the price listed underneath it. “But would it be possible to make the crystals green? Emerald green, not too bright. It brings out his eyes.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that.”

“Good, I’ll take it, then.”

“Great. I’ll be back in a moment to measure your fingers.”

As soon as the woman is out of earshot, Grantaire turns to Enjolras. “Are you sure about this? That ring was expensive.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t mind. It’ll look good on you. Wait, are you worried about money?”

“Well, you’re significantly wealthier than I am, and I just don’t want to-”

“You think this is charity? R, I don’t care about how much money you have. That’s not important. I chose a ring that I think will suit you, just like how you chose a ring that’ll suit me. It’ll even match my ace ring.” He flashes the black ring on his right middle finger at Grantaire.

“Okay.” Grantaire still feels uneasy for some reason, but he appreciates Enjolras’ thoughtfulness.

They get their fingers measured and pay for the rings (the saleswoman is a little taken aback when Grantaire produces a wad of cash out of his pocket from the sofa), and soon they’re walking down the street towards the bakery Marius had sent them to. Grantaire is scrolling through their website, and _wow_ , these cakes look good. And expensive.

“I can’t wait to wear my ring,” Enjolras says.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” Grantaire replies distractedly. “They said it’ll take six to eight days for them to be ready.”

The door of the bakery opens with a quaint little ding, and a familiar blonde head pops up from behind the counter.

“Cosette?” Enjolras says.

“Enjolras! Grantaire! I’ve been expecting you!” Cosette beams.

“Of course Pontmercy would recommend his girlfriend’s bakery,” Grantaire says under his breath.

Cosette definitely hears him because she’s frowning at him. “I’d like to think my reputation as a baker precedes me more than my reputation as your friend’s girlfriend,” she says.

“I didn’t know you had a bakery,” Enjolras says.

“We opened a few months ago,” she replies. “I had a lot of help from my father to begin with. He knows a surprising amount of things about bread. Come, sit down, I’ll be just a second with some samples.”

Grantaire and Enjolras take a seat in one of the booths as Cosette comes out, balancing several plates. “Marius and Jehan picked out a few flavours earlier that they thought you’d like, but there’s a full list in the menu if you fancy something different. Everything comes as a tiered cake or cupcakes if you want a break from tradition. It’s just me in today, so yell if you need anything. Enjoy!”

Grantaire looks at the cake in front of him. _Lemon lime drizzle_ , reads the little sign stuck on it. He takes a bite and immediately _moans_.

Enjolras is grinning at him. “Having fun there?” he asks.

“You have to try this cake,” Grantaire says through a mouthful of said cake. He offers a forkful of it to Enjolras, who raises an eyebrow at him.

“That’s cheesy,” he says.

“No, it’s citrusy,” Grantaire retorts.

Enjolras pulls a face. “You’ve never been on Tumblr, have you?”

“Just eat the damn cake,” Grantaire sighs.

Enjolras does, and then _he_ moans, which makes Grantaire feel strangely warm. Weird.

“Okay, so verdict on lemon-lime drizzle is good?”

Enjolras nods vigorously.

“What’s next?”

“Triple chocolate?” Enjolras says, reading the sign on the cake in front of him.

They each take a bite on the count of three and moan in sync.

“ _Fuck_ , this is good,” Grantaire says, taking another forkful.

“I have no point of reference to base this on, but I’m pretty sure right now I’m experiencing the food equivalent of sex,” Enjolras says. He has some chocolate icing on his nose, which is cute.

 _Cute_?

The cake is definitely going to his head. Or somewhere a little more south of there.

They gradually get through the rest of the cakes, each somehow more delicious than the last, and when Cosette returns their plates are empty and their stomachs are full. “Can I get anything else for you?” she asks.

“I think if you do we’ll burst,” Grantaire says. “They were all fantastic, thank you.”

Cosette beams. “I’m so glad you enjoyed them! I’ll just clear these plates away and then we can talk wedding cake.”

A moment later, Cosette has pulled up a chair and is going through different cake styles. “This is the one that Jehan likes,” she says, showing a picture of various cakes in different sizes on different platforms. “But if you prefer another one, I can just tell him to stuff it.”

“I kind of like the traditional tiered cake,” Enjolras says.

“Me too,” Grantaire says.

“That’s my favourite too,” Cosette replies. “I still need to talk to Jehan and Marius about decoration, but I’ll make sure everything gets run by you before it’s finalised. I don’t want those two running off with their wild creative fantasies. How about flavours?”

“We were thinking a tier of red velvet, a tier of strawberry and rose and a tier of vanilla,” Grantaire says.

Cosette gasps. “And that’ll look so pretty when you cut into it!” she exclaims. “You both have excellent taste!”

“So will you give us a rough idea of cost now or-”

Cosette whirls on Enjolras. “Don’t be silly. You’re not paying for this.”

“But-”

“Nope. No buts. I owe Jehan a favour and this is my first wedding cake so I’m hoping it’ll draw in more customers. Besides, you two are my friends and you’ve been so complimentary about my baking that I’d love to do a cake for you. For free.”

Grantaire can see that there’s no arguing with her. “That’s brilliant, Cosette. So fantastic. And we’ll be sure to recommend you to Courfeyrac and Combeferre when they eventually decide to tie the knot.”

“Marius is a lucky guy,” Enjolras adds.

“He is,” Cosette says, smiling. “He’s a disaster in the kitchen, bless him. One time he burnt soup. As in, he set it on fire. But don’t tell him I told you that.”


	3. Step Three: Do some more fake dating, realise your feelings with the help of your groomspeople, and then realise that this complicates the situation even more – but hey, there’s more discount food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for a bi crisis..... a bisis, if you will...........

 “R?”

“Good morning, Enjolras. I trust you slept well?”

“R, we’re in the same apartment. We literally share a wall. You don’t need to call me.”

“I know, but my bed’s warm, and I don’t want to get up unless it’s worth it. Which is why I’m calling you.”

Grantaire can hear Enjolras sigh. “What do you want with me now?”

“You know that creperie near the Louvre?”

“The one with all the ice cream? That Bossuet got sick in last time?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Bahorel dared him to do the Twenty Scoop Challenge. But yeah, that one. They’re doing a Valentine’s Day event today. Half price brunch for couples only. Want to go?”

“Well, technically we are engaged.”

“I hear a yes! We leave in fifteen minutes, honeypie.” And Grantaire hangs up.

“Honeypie?” Enjolras calls incredulously through their shared wall. Grantaire just laughs.

Fifteen minutes later they’re walking to the creperie. “There are desserts at stake here, so we have to make this convincing,” Grantaire says.

“What, you don’t think I’m a good enough actor?” Enjolras asks.

“No, I’m just saying that couples on Valentine’s Day are usually happy, so you could stop scowling at me for once.”

If anything, that makes Enjolras scowl more. But, when they reach the creperie, he takes Grantaire’s hand and adopts a more sunny expression.

“Table for two?” a waiter asks, catching sight of their joined hands.

“Yes please, my fiancé found your deal on brunch this morning,” Enjolras says, smiling warmly at Grantaire, which does weird things to his stomach. Although that’s probably hunger.

“Of course. Right this way, gentlemen.” The creperie is decorated with red and pink bunting and shiny hearts have been stuck on the windows. Usually Grantaire spends Valentine’s Day bitterly drinking away his loneliness, but it’s nice to spend it with someone for once.

The waiter guides them to a window table and tells them he’ll return in a moment when they’re ready to order. Grantaire is about to settle into his seat when he catches sight of Enjolras’ expression. “You okay?”

Enjolras glances furtively out of the window. “You’re not afraid anyone will see us?” he whispers.

That stings more than Grantaire wants it to. “You’re scared to be seen with me,” he states flatly. Of course he is. Why would someone as brilliant and beautiful as Enjolras be going out with an ugly, cynical recovering alcoholic like him?

“No,” Enjolras says in a panic. “I just… I’m sorry, this is all very new to me. The whole dating thing.” He sits down, and Grantaire takes a seat opposite him.

“You’ve never been in a relationship before?”

Enjolras shakes his head, skimming through the menu. “I like to keep myself focused on the cause as much as possible. Romance, dating… that stuff never really fit into the picture. So forgive me if I’m a little uncertain.”

Grantaire has to admit he’s a little surprised. The way Enjolras looks, the way he talks about the cause with such passion, that would make anyone fall for him. But everyone always says he’s married to his work, so maybe it’s not that surprising that Enjolras has never had a significant other. “Not even a fling?” he asks.

“Doesn’t interest me.” He flashes his ace ring as an explanation. “Sure, finding a romantic connection would be nice, but I don’t know if there’d be anyone who’d support my work and all the time I spend on it.”

And Enjolras looks so despondent then that Grantaire reaches across the table and takes his hand. “Well, for the record, I think anyone who passes you up just because they’re jealous of your love affair with liberation and justice for all is stupid.”

Enjolras smiles at him, and Grantaire swears he can see a hint of sadness in his eyes before the waiter returns to take their order.

“I’ll have the sweet crepe selection,” Enjolras says. Trust him to have a sweet tooth.

“And I’ll have the classic crepe platter, please,” Grantaire says.

It takes a moment after the waiter leaves for Grantaire to realise that their hands are still intertwined on the table. Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, busy scrolling through his phone – probably checking Twitter for any politicians who deserve to be called out. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “Hey.”

Enjolras looks up from his phone. “Hmm?”

“I dare you to try the Twenty Scoop Challenge.”

Enjolras scowls at him. “This is a nice place. I don’t want to get kicked out again for vomit-related incidents.”

“I think you could actually do it, though. You’ve got a sweet tooth, and you’re not lactose intolerant like Bossuet-”

“Bossuet’s lactose intolerant?”

“Mildly. But he still has dairy, like, all the time.”

“Then why on earth did he try and do the Twenty Scoop Challenge?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Because Bahorel bet him fifty euros he couldn’t.”

Enjolras laughs at that. He really is handsome when he laughs. Grantaire is struck by how _easy_ this feels. A week ago he and Enjolras couldn’t get through one conversation without arguing about something, and now they’re good friends and pretending to date for half price food and he’s _enjoying_ it. He can’t wait to marry Enjolras.

Which is _not_ something a _straight_ guy says about a strictly _platonic_ guy friend.

Shit.

He needs to talk to Bossuet and Joly.

Thankfully their food arrives then and Grantaire digs in straight away. The crepe is good. Really good. When he looks up he catches Enjolras looking at him bemusedly. He’s taken two mouthfuls maximum of his first crepe. “You should slow down or else I won’t be the one worrying about being sick,” he says.

Grantaire elects to ignore the advice and shovels in another forkful of crepe without breaking eye contact. Which ends up with him getting melted cheese on his face. Enjolras bursts out laughing and grabs a napkin, leaning over the table to wipe Grantaire’s cheek. It’s sickeningly romantic and it’s sending some highly inappropriate, not-straight thoughts into Grantaire’s mind.

When they’re done, Grantaire heads straight to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment while Enjolras goes home to work on his speech for the rally. Their door is always left unlocked for some reason so he lets himself in and finds the three of them… in a blanket fort?

“Guys?” he calls.

Joly sticks his head out. “Oh, Grantaire! How’s the wedding planning going?”

“Good, I think. I’m not really in charge of that though, Jehan and Marius insist on micromanaging everything.”

Bossuet sticks his head out next to Joly. “Sounds like them. What brings you here?”

Grantaire shifts on his feet uncomfortably. “I kind of need to ask you something. Well, tell you something, I guess. I don’t know. It’s been a confusing morning.”

Musichetta sticks her head out next to the other two. They look like a sideways Dugtrio. “I like confusion,” she says. “Join us in the blanket fort.”

Grantaire did not expect his morning to end like this, sitting cross-legged in a blanket fort with his three best friends while Panic! at the Disco plays in the background. “I came to you because you three are my groomspeople whom I trust with my life and I know that whatever I say won’t leave this… blanket fort,” he says. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta all nod sagely. “Basically… I’m straight, right?”

The three of them share a look. “So this is what this is about, huh?” Musichetta sighs.

“You keep telling us you’re straight, yes,” Bossuet says carefully.

“Right. But this morning and, well, for a few days now, I’ve been having some, uh, not straight thoughts. Is that normal? Is that just me being so horny I’ll take anything?”

They share another look. Grantaire swears the three of them have some kind of telepathic connection. “What kind of thoughts? Describe them,” Joly says.

Grantaire scowls at him. “Really? Don’t make me do that, please.”

Joly shrugs. “We need to know what we’re dealing with. And as the medical professional of Les Amis, I want to get this done right.”

“You’re still in medical school, Joly, I’d hardly count that as a medical professional. And you’re definitely doing this to fuck with me.”

“Do you want our help or not?”

Grantaire sighs. “Okay. They’re about Enjolras.”

“I knew it!” Musichetta exclaims quietly, earning a sharp glare.

“I don’t know, lately when we’ve been doing couple-y things like ring shopping and cake tasting, I really enjoy it and I want to do it more. Like this morning, I got him to pretend to date me so we’d get half price crepes at that place near the Louvre-”

“Oh, the one where…” Joly gestures to Bossuet and mimes throwing up. Bossuet smacks him gently on the arm.

“Yeah, that one. And sure, partly it was because of the cheap brunch, but also it may have been because I like it when Enjolras holds my hand and flirts with me. But that could be platonic, right? That could just be me wanting to get closer to Enjolras platonically so that we’re more touchy-feely around each other and have friendly banter.”

Joly hums uncertainly. “Anything else?”

“Well, I have thought a few times how it would be nice to date or marry Enjolras for real, y’know, with feelings and everything, but I was tired or hungry those times, so my emotions were all over the place. And of course, he talks so passionately about the cause, and he’s so handsome that anyone could fall for him, so it’s normal for me to picture him naked once or twice, or be aroused when he moans while eating Cosette’s cakes, right?”

“Right…”

“And I’m not gay because I’ve felt the same way about girls before, but sometimes I wish he and I were gay, y’know?”

The three of them share a look that seems much more meaningful than the others. Finally, Bossuet turns to him. “R, I don’t know how to tell you this, but having gay thoughts about your friend generally means that you’re not straight.”

“But I’m not gay,” Grantaire insists.

They sigh in synchronisation with each other. “R, would it help if I told you we’ve all experienced the exact train of thought you’re going through right now?” Joly says.

But that can’t be right, Grantaire thinks, since they’re all- “Oh my god,” he says.

Musichetta claps him on the back. “Welcome to bisexuality.”

Grantaire can’t quite think straight. (ha ha.) “I’m bisexual,” he says.

“Yeah you are.” Bossuet offers him a bowl. “Have some popcorn.”

Grantaire takes a handful, feeling like his body is on autopilot. Then, suddenly something clicks. “I like Enjolras,” he says.

“Yep,” Bossuet says. “More popcorn?”

“You know you need to tell him, right?” Joly says.

Grantaire groans and flops onto his side. He knows Joly’s right, but _god_ , that conversation’s going to be awkward. And what if Enjolras doesn’t want to marry him anymore? _Of course_ Enjolras won’t want to marry him anymore. And Grantaire definitely can’t marry him now, that would be taking advantage of him. And he’d only end up getting hurt. This is just like one of those crappy rom-coms, except with slightly more diversity. “Why did I have to find out about this _now_?” he whines into a pillow.

Joly pats his head comfortingly. “I know,” he says. “Feelings suck.”

Ain’t that right.

\---

Grantaire ends up spending another three hours in the blanket fort, watching _Game of Thrones_ with the others. Yes, he has absolutely no idea what’s going on and why so many people are being killed, but the dragons are cool. The only thing he’s managed to understand from the trio’s running commentary is that the blond kid is a dick. That, according to Musichetta, is all he needs to know.

It’s getting dark outside as he trudges back to his – Enjolras’ – apartment. Strangely, he thinks he can smell burning as he comes up the stairs. He realises why as soon as he opens the door. Enjolras is in the kitchen, but turns as soon as he hears Grantaire come in. There’s a massive smile on his face, which would make Grantaire melt if it weren’t for the smoke coming out of the kitchen.

“Guess whose appeal got approved and is staying in France for at least another two years?” Enjolras says.

Grantaire feels like the air has been knocked out of him. “What? Really?”

Enjolras nods, grinning.

“Oh my god.”

Enjolras practically squeals – which is something Grantaire never thought he’d hear him do – and runs into the hallway, crushing Grantaire in a hug and actually lifting him up, which is quite a feat given how small he is. Grantaire can’t quite process what’s going on, but he can tell that his face is red.

“What’s that burning smell?” he asks once he’s put down.

Enjolras grimaces. “Oh, I tried to make you a cake, you know, to celebrate, and I got the recipe of Feuilly but I’ve never been that good at baking and I forgot the sugar and there was a minor fire.”

Grantaire blinks. “A minor fire?”

“Yes, only minor though, nothing’s been badly burnt.”

“Then why is your hand bandaged up?”

Enjolras has the audacity to look sheepish. “Um… that was when I tried to take the cake out of the oven without gloves.”

“What the fuck Apollo.”

Grantaire thinks Enjolras is blushing but that could just be where the hot air from the oven has hit his cheeks. Or it could just be wishful thinking. “But back to the matter at hand!” Enjolras says excitedly. “You don’t have to move back to Canada! And we’ve got the wedding at the end of this week and then you’ll be all set on the road to French citizenship!”

And Grantaire wants to tell him – well, no, he doesn’t want to tell him, he knows he should tell him, there’s a big difference – but now he has the residence permit and the wedding is so close and he’s so relieved that it almost takes away all of his guilt. And hey, he’s spent his whole life being selfish, so why not be selfish for a little while longer?

He asks Enjolras if he wants to call for a pizza.


	4. Step Four: Get married without a hitch – until you accidentally confess your feelings on your wedding night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating twice in one day bc i'm going back to uni tomorrow and probably won't get a chance to post
> 
> strap yourselves in this is a long boi

If there’s one thing Grantaire’s learned from this week, it’s that Jehan can plan an event like nobody’s business.

Of course he’s the one in charge of planning rallies and protests for the Amis, but Enjolras has those arranged months in advance, not days. This wedding is the definition of last minute, but with Marius’ help Jehan seems to be on the ball.

The final few days leading up to the wedding are a blur. Grantaire and Enjolras are ushered to suit fittings and florists. They’ve managed to cut down significantly on costs by pulling in a few favours and doing a lot of the work themselves: Cosette, Eponine and Joly are in charge of catering, Bahorel is officiating (he ordained himself online last year because he was bored one afternoon), and they’re holding the whole thing in the Musain because they’re all regulars so they could book the place for far less than a church or hotel. Marius is in charge of decorations and Cosette has told Grantaire that their flat has become something of a craft store over the past week. “One morning I woke up and Marius was passed out in a bed of tissue paper. And then when I woke him up he started crying because it was all creased!” she giggled.

Grantaire wants to enjoy himself – he’s getting pretty much the wedding of his dreams, and the kindness and generosity of his friends really makes him happy – but there’s always that nagging feeling of guilt settled in the back of his mind, like an itch that he just can’t scratch or else it’ll turn into a nasty, permanent scar. (Grantaire hates how accurate that metaphor is.) He knows he should tell Enjolras how he feels, and he’s being selfish by keeping it from him, but he can’t do it. And it’s fine because Enjolras will never find out.

Grantaire asks Eponine to walk him down the aisle and she makes him promise not to tell anyone she cried about it. Eponine is more like a little sister to her, but they’ve looked out for each other a lot, ever since she, Azelma and Gavroche escaped from their parents.

Of course, Azelma is the flower girl and Gavroche is the ring bearer, roles which they both take extremely seriously.

Although neither of them want one, Jehan insists on a bachelor party, and they all spend the night at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s apartment, making up drinking games while watching bad rom-coms. Grantaire sips his grape juice and thinks about how he’s become the protagonist in his own bad flick. Except no one’s laughing their way through his life. Especially not him.

The night before the big day, Grantaire finds Enjolras hunched over his laptop on the kitchen table, coffee mugs collecting beside him. He sits down silently opposite him. Enjolras has his reading glasses on, and Grantaire didn’t even know he had reading glasses, let alone would look so attractive in them.

Grantaire’s come to find out a lot of things about Enjolras since moving in with him. At first he was worried that Enjolras would be one of those people who’d flip out at the tiniest bit of mess, but he’s actually the messy one in their apartment. He leaves Wednesday afternoons free to clean, and then the mess slowly accumulates over the next week until he cleans again. He might not be the best at baking, but he can make a mean vegetarian chilli (and actually did the impossible by making Grantaire try meat substitutes for the first time). He sings in the shower, and Grantaire has an audio clip of him singing “Gay or European” from _Legally Blonde_. He loves nature documentaries but can never watch the scenes where a predator catches its prey. In the mornings all you can get out of him are monosyllables until he’s had half a mug of coffee. While he barely ever swears in public, he has a real potty mouth in the apartment, especially when he’s playing MarioKart. He likes to wear large jumpers around the apartment and has borrowed Grantaire’s big, green, paint-stained hoodie on a couple of occasions. All these things just make Grantaire like him more. Which makes Grantaire’s like even more miserable.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Enjolras mutters, not taking his eyes off the screen. “I just… everything I’ve written for this speech is… not good. It’s bad. And that’s the opposite of what I need for a speech that’s possibly going to be televised regionally, if not nationally.”

“I’m sure it’s not bad. Everything you write is good.”

Enjolras looks at him flatly. “R, have you ever read anything I’ve written?”

Grantaire has read everything Enjolras has written, down to the first essay he wrote in college about the history of Marxism. But there’s no way he’s going to tell Enjolras that. “You know that article you had in the college newspaper in December?”

“The one about how capitalism is taking over Christmas?”

“Yeah, that one. What a mood killer. But I proofread it after Feuilly had done it drunk. That was good.”

Enjolras groans. “But _good_ isn’t good enough! This needs to be great. Inspiring. Rousing. On par with Martin Luther King Jr. and Emmeline Pankhurst. We’re trying to inspire change, and we’re not going to do that with rhetoric that’s just _good_.”

Grantaire reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ hands in an attempt to make him calm down. “Apollo, this is just a rally! Sure it’s important but it’s not worth losing sleep over when it’s still a month away! Please go to bed. I want to marry you while you’re awake, thanks.”

Enjolras stands up, ripping his hands from Grantaire’s and scowling at him. “This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?” he scoffs. “You don’t understand how important this is to me. You’re just like everyone else, you treat this like it’s a hobby of mine, a phase, and you don’t realise that this is my life!”

Grantaire wants to do something. Take his hands again, or hug him, or, heck, kiss him just to make him shut up. Because it’s not true. “I know, Enjolras, but your wellbeing is important to me.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be! I never asked for your concern, and Lord knows you haven’t given it to me until recently. What changed? The engagement? Is it fake, just like that?” Grantaire thinks Enjolras is crying now. His voice is wavering, which it never does, even at a potentially dangerous protest. “I should’ve known,” Enjolras mutters. “Your interest has always been fake. You come to meetings for what? To mock me? Argue with me? You don’t believe in us. You don’t believe in the cause. You’re incapable of believing in anything.”

And that finally makes Grantaire snap. “I believe in you!” he practically shouts. Enjolras freezes, staring wide-eyed at him. “I believe in you,” he repeats at a much more suitable volume for two in the morning. “I’ve always believed in you, Apollo. When Joly first started dragging me to meetings, sure I found it fun to get under your skin, but your passion for the cause, the energy you throw into it -” he gestures to Enjolras’ laptop, chuckling, “- it’s enough to inspire even a hardened cynic like me.”

Enjolras is still staring at him doubtfully. “You’re serious?”

Grantaire nods. He thinks about how easy it would be to let slip those three words. “I admire you, Enjolras.” Not quite those ones, but at least he’s telling the truth.

Enjolras finally gives Grantaire a small smile. “I definitely need to sleep,” he says, walking tiredly into Grantaire and wrapping his arms around his waist. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“You’re forgiven. And I’m sorry for implying that this isn’t important. I know how much this stuff means to you.” Enjolras hums in response. “You’ll knock ‘em dead at the rally, I know you will because you always do. It’s not worth worrying about it tonight. We’ve got another big day tomorrow, after all.”

Enjolras groans into his shoulder. “Oh, _crap_. I’m going to be so tired, you’ll hate me.”

 _I could never hate you_. “Don’t worry, so will I. We can take a power nap between the ceremony and the reception.” Grantaire hates how natural this feels. Hugging your fiancé at two AM in nothing but a hoodie and boxers should be romantic, and it is, kind of, but it’s not like Grantaire can enjoy it.

Enjolras frowns up at him. “Did we just have an argument and make up like adults?” he asks.

Grantaire stifles a laugh. “Oh god, married life is already getting to us.”

“This whole thing has turned out a lot better than I thought it would.”

“What, you thought it’d be a total train wreck?”

“Can you blame me?” Enjolras smiles sarcastically. Grantaire can’t. “But in truth, I didn’t even think you’d agree.”

“You didn’t?”

“No,” Enjolras buries his head back into Grantaire’s shoulder, in the thick fabric of his hoodie. “I’m glad you did, though.”

Enjolras has no idea what he’s doing to him. And tomorrow they’ll wake up as if none of this happened and they’ll go get married and be platonic husbands for the rest of their lives. Well, for the two years it takes Grantaire to get his citizenship, at least.

“Me, too.”

Grantaire is thoroughly fucked.

\---

The next morning, they’re eating breakfast together in companionable silence as usual – all memory of what happened last night left unmentioned – when there’s a loud knock at their door, followed by giggling that sounds extremely familiar. Enjolras stands up, muttering “it’s probably them”, and lets Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Marius fly into the apartment.

“You two shouldn’t be seeing each other!” Courfeyrac exclaims with a gasp, pointing at Enjolras and Grantaire, who is still sitting at the kitchen table, eating some slightly burned toast. “It’s bad luck!”

“Which is why you’re coming with us!” Combeferre says, grabbing Enjolras’ hand and dragging him out of the door. “See you at the Musain, R!”

“Bye,” Grantaire says through a mouthful of toast, waving weakly before the four of them disappear, leaving the apartment deafeningly silent. His own groomspeople will be over in a couple of hours to help him get ready. But right now he needs to paint.

His art stuff hasn’t made it out of the box he packed it in yet, so it takes a bit of time to sort out all the loose pencils and paints and find the ones he wants. He takes a big canvas and just starts squeezing paint on it, brushing until the whole thing is covered with wild strokes of colour, red and yellow and gold. Colours he can’t get off his mind, so he’ll get them onto a canvas instead. He has half a mind to add green and blue until the colours muddy and turn to a messy brown, but then he has an idea.

By the time Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta arrive, Grantaire’s covered in paint and his eyes are starting to unfocus but he thinks he’s got the figure in the painting just about right. A figure in red and gold, all big brushstrokes and wild yet precise movement, waving a crimson flag in the air. Grantaire’s painting will never live up to the real thing, but he thinks it’s a reasonable likeness. As soon as Musichetta sees it, she shakes her head and says, “Boy, you got it _bad_.”

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Grantaire asks, suddenly nervous.

“An extremely flattering painting of him fighting for justice? He’ll love it,” Bossuet replies. “Now, let’s get you ready. You’re in a bit of a state.”

Grantaire showers and manages to get all the gold paint out of his hair. He gets changed into a royal blue tux that Jehan picked out for him and Joly ties his matching bow tie for him. He frowns at himself in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” Bossuet asks.

Grantaire pulls a face. “I don’t know. I just feel like… it’s not me, y’know? It’s too formal.”

“It’s a wedding, R, of course it’ll be formal,” Joly says.

“Wait. Let me try something.” Bossuet takes Grantaire’s jacket off him. “How about that?”

Underneath, Grantaire is wearing a pale blue shirt and dark red braces. He immediately feels more relaxed. “Better. But won’t I look too informal in this, alongside everyone else wearing a suit?”

The three of them share another one of their looks before removing their jackets in perfect synchronisation. “There. Now we match,” Musichetta says. “Now we need to do something about that hair of yours.”

Grantaire lets her stick down his unruly hair with copious amounts of gel and spray, and by the end he doesn’t look too bad. They hurry to the Musain so that they’re not late, but they’re still chastised by Jehan when they arrive because apparently _on time_ is the new _late_. Jehan snaps a quick photo of them: as well as designated wedding planner, he’s also designated wedding photographer.

Eponine looks beautiful in a simple blue skater dress. “You ready?” she asks, gently rubbing Grantaire’s shoulders, when everyone else has gone inside.

“As I’ll ever be,” Grantaire says.

“Let’s do this then,” she says, grinning.

Liszt’s _Liebestraume III_ – Enjolras’ favourite piano piece – is playing as Grantaire and Eponine enter the Musain, and Grantaire can’t help but stifle a laugh at the very obvious red, white and blue colour scheme of the place. Trust Marius to take Enjolras’ passion for France and turn it into a wedding theme. He has to admit he’s done a good job with it, though.

They join Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Marius and Bahorel at the end of the aisle, and Eponine kisses Grantaire on the cheek before taking her seat in the front row, next to Cosette. The music suddenly changes to a piano cover of the _Blue Danube_ – one of Grantaire’s favourite pieces of classical music – and Grantaire can see his friends gasp and grin. Combeferre mouths _turn around_ at him and winks, and Grantaire does.

He didn’t think Enjolras could ever be more handsome. He’s always been stunning, enough to knock the breath out of Grantaire if he lets his guard down, especially when he’s at a protest, face covered in dirt or blood and eyes on fire with determination and hope. But right now he’s at the other end of the Musain with Feuilly (the only Ami who hadn’t been dragged into the wedding planning, but Enjolras probably would have asked him anyway), dressed in a dark red tuxedo with matching waistcoat and royal blue tie, and his hair has been braided with little matching blue flowers – probably Cosette’s doing – and he’s walking towards Grantaire with a shy smile, as if he doesn’t know he’s the most beautiful person in the room- no, the _world_.

Enjolras and Feuilly reach the end of the aisle, and Enjolras hugs Feuilly before joining Grantaire and squeezing his hand. “Hey,” he whispers. “You look great.”

“Not as great as you,” Grantaire says, congratulating himself internally on managing to get out those words without fucking up because the only thought going round and round his head at the moment is _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_

“Dearly beloved,” Bahorel says, grinning proudly at the two of them, “we are gathered here today to join two of our friends, Jean Enjolras and Louis-François Grantaire-” and Grantaire spots a couple of his friends’ eyes widen, and knows he’ll never hear the end of his stupid first name, “-in holy matrimony. Not only do we celebrate the bond that these two young men have, we also celebrate the fact that Grantaire isn’t getting shipped off to Canada any time soon because God knows what we’d do without him. Especially Enjolras.” There are a few giggles at that, and Grantaire spots Enjolras shoot a glare Bahorel’s way, who just shrugs. “Let’s get this party started, shall we? Who has the rings?” Gavroche hands them dutifully to him. “Thanks. Who wants to go first? Enj?”

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s ring and his left hand, holding it so gently. Grantaire notices that Enjolras’ hands are shaking.

“Repeat after me,” Bahorel instructs. “I, Jean Enjolras,”

“I, Jean Enjolras,”

“Take you, Louis-François Grantaire,”

“Take you, Louis-François Grantaire,” Grantaire catches Enjolras grinning at him.

“To be my lawfully wedded husband,”

“To be my lawfully wedded husband,”

“To have and to hold, until death do us part.”

“To have and to hold, until death do us part.”

“Or at least until R gets French citizenship,” Bahorel adds, to a few laughs.

“Or at least until R gets French citizenship,” Enjolras chuckles.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Enjolras slips the ring onto Grantaire’s finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.” The ring is an oddly comfortable weight on Grantaire’s hand.

“Your turn, R.” Grantaire takes the gold ring and Enjolras’ hand, squeezing gently. “I, Louis-François Grantaire,”

“I, Louis-François Grantaire,” Grantaire repeats.

“Take you, Jean Enjolras,”

“Take you, Jean Enjolras,”

“To be my lawfully wedded husband,”

“To be my lawfully wedded husband,”

“To have and to hold, until death do us part.”

“To have and to hold, until death do us part.”

“Or at least until I get French citizenship.”

“Or at least until I get French citizenship.”

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Grantaire finishes, pushing the ring onto Enjolras’ finger. Enjolras beams.

“Well then, as long as no one objects…” Bahorel pauses to scan the small congregation. “And I’m glad no one does because they’d have to fight me, by the power vested in me by the wonders of the internet, I now pronounce you married.” He smiles. “Now’s usually the time people kiss, if you want.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras. Enjolras quirks an eyebrow, and two pairs of nervous eyes meet. “Do you permit it?” he asks.

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras wraps an arm around Grantaire’s waist and places another on his shoulder, pulling them together. Grantaire can barely react as Enjolras reaches up and presses their lips together, chaste and achingly quick – and Grantaire swears he can hear the click of Jehan’s camera – before pulling back, grinning. His right hand has managed to find its way to the back of Enjolras’ neck, but his left, the one with the ring on it, remains slack by his side. He can faintly hear people cheering in the background, but all his focus is on Enjolras as he takes his hand and they run, laughing, down the aisle.

As soon as they’re out on the street, Enjolras launches himself at Grantaire, hugging him tightly. “We did it!” he exclaims into Grantaire’s shirt. “You’re going to stay in France!”

Grantaire manages to plaster on a happy smile, as if he hasn’t just kissed the love of his life and had it mean absolutely nothing. “We did it,” he repeats. “Now I really need a nap.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jehan says, joining them outside the Musain, camera still in hand. “We’ve got photos, and then the reception, and there’s no way you’re sleeping through something as important as that.”

Jehan takes photos of Enjolras and Grantaire, and them with their groomspeople, and with everyone who turned up. Several people want to say their congratulations, and then, finally, Jehan lets them go while he and Marius set up the Musain for the reception. “Don’t be late,” he instructs them, pointing a finger in each of their faces, “or I won’t hesitate to injure you.”

As soon as they’re back in the apartment, Enjolras flops onto the sofa. “That was exhausting,” he sighs.

Grantaire’s left smiling fondly at him. “Careful, you’ll ruin your hair,” he says.

They take a quick nap before racing back to the Musain for dinner. Enjolras has abandoned his jacket – it’s too hot, he says, and he doesn’t want to ruin it – and Grantaire can’t help but notice the way his waistcoat accentuates his figure in all the best ways. Dammit.

The food is amazing, as Grantaire expected from Cosette, Eponine and Joly, and when the cake is wheeled out, everyone is awestruck by its beauty. It’s a huge white three-tiered cake with white frosting and tricolour cockades made from icing to decorate. Cosette’s business will certainly boom after this. The toasts come afterwards, and Grantaire can’t help but grip his glass of lemonade a little too tightly out of worry that his groomspeople might let something slip in their speech. He trusts them, of course he does, they’re his best friends, but none of them are known for keeping secrets.

Courfeyrac goes first. “I called dibs on being Enjolras’ best man, much to the displeasure of some,” he says, with a sideways smirk at Combeferre beside him, “so I’ll be starting the entertainment this evening. It’s my job to give you a few embarrassing details about our friend Enjolras, and wish him and Grantaire the best for the future.

“Enjolras was born in Southern France to a wealthy family, but rejected that bourgeois life pretty early on. I met him when we were eleven – I know because I was there – and he was already reading history books and newspapers – and I mean the real ones, not the app you get on your phone, and he had the ink stains on his hands to prove it – and he was already complaining about late-stage capitalism or something – forgive me for not remembering exactly, after all, I was ten at the time and understood nothing of what you were saying, no matter how interested I looked,” he adds to Enjolras.

“If I remember correctly, you always fell asleep when I started talking about politics,” Enjolras retorts.

“Combeferre joined our little band of misfits soon afterwards, and I was shocked that he actually knew a little about what Enjolras kept going on about. I had to do a lot of reading to be able to catch up with them, but between that and Enjolras’ passion for justice, a passion which he’s always had and shines through especially today, in a time that needs such passion and drive for change, I actually found myself agreeing with them.

“We started our school’s first activist group in our senior year, and started another one in our first year of college, which is where we met Marius and most of our other close friends. Including Grantaire. Although Grantaire didn’t initially come for the activism. He would come and sit in the back row with a bottle of wine and argue with Enjolras until the cows came home. The shouting matches could get loud. I remember one time, when they were arguing about the best way to disrupt traffic around the Champs-Elysees, the racket could be heard down the street. And that was only last month.

“I never thought today would come. I didn’t even think Enjolras and R would be able to spend more than a few hours alone without killing each other. When these two announced their engagement, I was surprised, yes, but I was happy for them. It means we get to keep one of our friends in this country, and it means that I made twenty euros.” Grantaire sees Enjolras shoot a glare at Courfeyrac, but he ignores it, lifting his glass. “Please join me in raising a toast. To the happy couple!”

“To the happy couple,” everyone repeats. Grantaire joins Enjolras in glaring at Courfeyrac this time.

“And here’s to many more years of fighting for justice!” Courfeyrac sits down.

Although Grantaire didn’t designate one best person out of his groomspeople, and all three of them collaborated on the speech, they decided that Bossuet should be the one to deliver it. “We’ve been Grantaire’s best friends for years,” he begins, “and honestly, when we first met him, he was very different to the man you see today. We’d like to take some of the credit for that, of course, but I think the main driving force was Les Amis. And at the head of that? Enjolras.

“Joly was the one to start dragging Grantaire to meetings. He said that he needed an extra-curricular besides art or else he’d spend his whole life holed up in his room and get vitamin D deficiency. So Grantaire came, somewhat reluctantly at first, until he never missed a meeting. His debates with Enjolras might have been a form of entertainment at the beginning, but I gradually started to notice a genuine interest in the group’s cause, and a genuine admiration for its leader. Don’t look at me like that,” he says, grinning at the look Grantaire’s giving him, “I know you’re hiding all of that under that cynical, devil’s-advocate exterior.

“I won’t bore you with endless romantic anecdotes regarding R and Enjolras, but I’ll just tell one story that I think was integral to their relationship. It happened at the end of second year, during the first big protest outside the main University building that Enjolras organised. It started out great. Hundreds of students were there, if not thousands, campaigning to lower tuition rates and increase accessibility for disadvantaged students. After years of small-scale activism, like writing letters and arranging meaningless meetings with representatives, we finally felt like we were doing something that would actually result in change. Until the police turned up.

“It kind of went downhill from there. I don’t really remember much because I was beaten up fairly badly and taken into police custody, but Joly and Musichetta relayed everything to me once I’d gotten out. As soon as we saw the police – and they were armed – our first thought was to get Enjolras out and safe because as our leader he’d be the one they’d want to target. So Bahorel and I stood between them and him while Joly, Jehan and a few of the others tried to take Enjolras away from the crowd. Enj didn’t go quietly, I can tell you that. Like a true leader, he wanted to stay and fight, but we knew there was no fighting these police. All you could do was run or get hurt. Or worse. R couldn’t get involved because he’d be in danger if he got arrested, so he’d quietly disappeared around the back of a dorm building and kept Enjolras there while the others went back to help. Enj was… pretty shaken up. He felt responsible for hundreds of students getting injured, and that’s a lot to have on one’s conscience. Musichetta finally found them once the chaos had cleared up, huddled up together, Enj shaking into R’s shoulder and R telling him it would all be okay, no one’s going to blame him, he was just trying to do the right thing. I think that was the first time we realised just how invested in the cause R was, and it was an event that kind of cemented the bond between them. Sure things can get rough, but when do they not between two friends with such a strong connection?”

Grantaire remembers that day clearly. He hated himself for not going out and fighting with the others, and Enjolras resented him afterwards for keeping him out of it, no matter whether or not Grantaire had had to help him out of a panic attack. Bossuet may think that it strengthened their friendship, but to Grantaire it just made him more certain that Enjolras hated him.

“Please join me in wishing these two all the happiness in the world,” Bossuet finishes. “To R and Enjolras!”

“To R and Enjolras!” Grantaire downs his lemonade.

Everyone helps clear the tables away, and Grantaire finds Cosette and Eponine in the crowd. “I just wanted to thank you for dinner. It was so good,” he says to them. “And Cosette, the cake is beautiful! I love it!”

Cosette giggles. “Thank you! I must admit, when Marius told me the wedding would be France-themed, I had my doubts. I didn’t really know how to translate that into a cake. But I think it turned out pretty well.”

Jehan – designated wedding planner, photographer _and_ DJ – has set up a microphone next to a couple of speakers and his laptop. “Ladies, gentlemen and none of the above,” he says into the microphone. “May I have your attention please as I welcome the happy couple to the dancefloor for their first dance as husbands.”

Grantaire gives Jehan a look, but he just shrugs innocently. Enjolras is already in the middle of the dancefloor, holding out a hand towards him. Grantaire takes it, cringing as he feels everyone’s eyes on him. He could slip up at any moment, and he’s not just talking about his two left feet.

As Jehan curated the entire reception playlist in secret, Grantaire doesn’t know what to expect for their first dance song, and he immediately flushes when he hears the first few seconds of _Say it First_ by Sam Smith fill the room.

Enjolras starts to sway. Grantaire could swear he’s blushing too. “I love this song,” he says softly.

“Me too,” Grantaire whispers in reply.

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck and pulls him close. Grantaire has no choice but to sway with him, placing his hands awkwardly on his waist. “This isn’t a high school dance, R,” Enjolras says into his hear, “you don’t have to save room for Jesus.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “I thought this was all new to you,” he says. “That you were embarrassed.”

Enjolras shakes his head and looks into Grantaire’s eyes. _God_ , he really is beautiful. Grantaire’s going to burst. “Embarrassed? Never. Not with you.”

That’s it. Grantaire is going to die. He’s going to be the first man to actually die from loving too hard.

Grantaire spins Enjolras, and then Enjolras tries to spin Grantaire, but the height difference makes it a little awkward. They spend the rest of the song gently swaying together. At one point, Enjolras looks up at Grantaire, mouth open as if to say something, before shaking the thought away and resting his head back on Grantaire’s shoulder.

When the song ends, _Sugar, We’re Goin Down_ by Fall Out Boy starts playing and the other Amis crowd around Enjolras and Grantaire. They all spend the song jumping up and down and shouting the lyrics, having all had it on the soundtrack to their college years. When it’s over they disperse, and Grantaire makes a beeline for the seats where he spends the whole evening, only getting up to dance when he’s dragged over by his friends every so often. He likes observing, always has, it was part of why he started coming regularly to Les Amis meetings.

He spots Enjolras at the other end of the room, also sitting at one of the tables and peoplewatching. He looks exhausted. Grantaire finds his feet making their way over there before he can think twice, and soon he’s standing next to Enjolras with the other man staring up at him. “You alright?” he asks.

Enjolras nods. “I’m still a bit tired though.”

They peoplewatch in comfortable silence.

“I’ve never been one for parties,” Enjolras says quietly after a while.

“No?”

“The loud music, the drinking, the darkness… it always feels like everyone’s enjoying themselves more than I am. Or are they just better at pretending?”

Grantaire can hear the hint in the words. “Hey, I don’t think anyone will miss us if we leave. We’ve done our bit.”

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire. “You don’t want to stay?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Parties aren’t as fun when you’re sober.”

Enjolras hums in agreement and they sneak out of the Musain together, hoping Jehan won’t be too offended that they’ve left before midnight. The late winter air is crisp and neither of them brought jackets. Grantaire notices that Enjolras is starting to shiver and, feelings be damned, takes his hand. He sees Enjolras glance up at him curiously out of his peripheral vision, but keeps his head fixed forwards.

Grantaire heads straight for the coffee as soon as they get home. “Want to watch a film?” Enjolras asks from the living room. “We can get all the blankets together, make some popcorn and snuggle. It’s the asexual way of consummating our love.”

Grantaire hates how Enjolras can just joke about that. “I don’t mind,” he says, more coldly than he means to.

Enjolras comes to the doorway of the kitchen. “You okay? You’re not supposed to start giving me the silent treatment until at least the second year of marriage.”

And for some reason the easiness of Enjolras’ joking makes Grantaire snap. He spins round, fixing Enjolras with a hard glare. “Stop it,” he says.

Enjolras frowns at him, taken aback. “Stop what?”

“This,” Grantaire says, gesturing between them. “Flirting. Joking. Acting like our lives haven’t changed at all when they have. Hugely.” He sighs. “I wish I’d never agreed to do this,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

“What? You really wish that?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire can’t bear to look at him, but his voice is soft and uncertain.

Grantaire groans because he didn’t mean it like that, he meant… _god_. “No,” he admits. “I don’t know. It just… I can’t explain it.”

“I think you can, the problem is whether or not you want to,” Enjolras says bluntly.

“It hurts, okay? This whole thing, the pretending, all of it. It hurts me. Because…” (he’s really going to do this isn’t he?) “because I don’t want it to be pretend. Because I’m in love with you and I wanted our first kiss to mean something and I want us to sleep in the same bed and make a mess in the kitchen together and… I want a lot of things that I can’t have, and it’s been tearing me up, and I don’t think I can live like that for another two years. I’m sorry if I’ve just screwed everything up.” Grantaire falls silent and finally chances a look at Enjolras.

He’s staring at him with wide eyes and mouth slightly open. “How long?” he asks eventually, his voice hoarse.

“I only realised a few days ago, but really I think I’ve loved you for years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Is Enjolras about to cry? Because Grantaire can’t be the cause of Enjolras crying, he can’t, he doesn’t want to be.

“Because I knew this would happen if I told you. Because I thought I could keep my feelings to myself and you would never find out. Because I was selfish and I didn’t want to fuck up.” He laughs wryly. “But look at what I’ve done now.”

“Yeah. Look what you’ve done,” Enjolras spits out. “It would’ve been better had you told me before the wedding but now… R, I just feel like I’ve been used.”

“You were the one who asked to marry me in the first place!” Grantaire exclaims.

“Because I didn’t know what I was getting into! I never thought I’d… oh, forget it. I’m going for a walk.” Enjolras moves towards the front door.

“Where?”

“Out. Somewhere.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care.”

Grantaire wants to cry. He wants to scream. “Apollo?”

Enjolras turns around. “Don’t call me that.”

“Take a coat.” It pains him, but if Enjolras needs his space, he’s not going to stop him. He’s just going to make sure he doesn’t get hypothermia.

Enjolras’ gaze is still cold, but he gives a small nod before taking his coat and disappearing through the door. Grantaire feels sick in the silence of the apartment. He goes to his room and cries for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry


	5. Step Five: Hope that everything will go back to normal, even though you know it won’t

Grantaire wakes up with a bad crick in his neck. He realises he’s slept in his wedding suit, and he has a bad headache, but not one that comes with a hangover, so that’s a fairly good sign. He rolls onto his back as the memories of last night come flooding back to him. Enjolras dancing with him. Them fighting and Grantaire admitting his feelings in a burst of anger and pain. Enjolras storming out. Grantaire immediately wants to go back to sleep, probably forever, until his stomach reminds him it’s time for breakfast.

Grantaire is curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal when he hears keys in the door. He considers retreating to his room and staying there for the rest of his life, or at least until he moves out, but before he can do anything Enjolras is in the apartment, staring warily at him. He’s still wearing his suit as well, but his hair’s been taken down and hangs loose with a slight wave from the braid. He gives Grantaire a small, sheepish smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Grantaire echoes.

“Is there any milk left?”

“A little. We should buy some more today.”

“Okay.” Grantaire listens to Enjolras potter around in the kitchen for a couple of minutes before he joins him on the sofa with a mug of coffee.

“Have you eaten today?”

“I’ll have some toast afterwards, don’t worry.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“I went to Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s.”

“Do they know about what happened last night?”

“I only told them that we had a fight and I needed some space.”

The silence is suffocating. Grantaire doesn’t want to bring up the elephant in the room, but it has to be done at some point and right now Enjolras is looking very interested at his coffee mug. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I never meant to get feelings for you.”

Enjolras huffs a small laugh. “It’s not your fault, so don’t apologise. I should be the one to apologise for overreacting. Sure, it would’ve been nice to know about how you felt before the wedding, but, well, I can’t really place any blame on you about that when I’ve never told you I loved you.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his cereal. He looks up at Enjolras, who is casually sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just said something that changed Grantaire’s life in a split second. “You…?” Enjolras nods. “Why didn’t _you_ ever tell _me_?”

“Well, I was so desperate for ideas for how to keep you in France and that one seemed the only option, and I was so sleep deprived that night that I didn’t realise that my feelings would be a major problem until the next morning. And I kept them secret because, well, if I’d told you it would’ve definitely looked like I was using the marriage to get something more from you.” Enjolras says this so matter-of-factly, as if he was discussing the weather instead of deep feelings. “It did hurt me, thinking that you’d never feel the same way, but I also figured that I’d never stand a chance, and that even if I did we’d never work out.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” Grantaire asks. “I mean, look at you. You’re perfect, and you’re passionate and intelligent and beautiful and witty and… perfect, Apollo. If anything, I’d never stand a chance.”

“Well, first reason I thought that was that I thought you were straight.” Enjolras grins.

“Okay, fair point, I thought that too,” Grantaire laughs.

“And second reason was that even if you weren’t, you’d be wanting things I’d be too hesitant to give you. And I’m not saying that sex is completely off the table, it’s just that I don’t really know what’s on the table for me yet and it’ll probably take a while to figure out. I figured you’d lose patience.”

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand. “Hey, don’t say that. I’m in love with you because of what you think are your flaws – which they aren’t – not in spite of them. As I’ve already said, you’re perfect, and if I can be with perfection in any way whatsoever, I’d consider myself a very lucky guy.”

And Enjolras definitely blushes then, and Grantaire thinks it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“So… we both have feelings for each other. And we both happen to be married. To each other.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Enjolras. “How do you want this to play out?”

Enjolras smiles nervously. “You want to go to dinner tonight? On a real date?”

“I would love nothing more,” Grantaire says. “And we can take this as slowly as you want.” He gets up. “I’m gonna go get out of this suit and take a shower, since we need to return them to the rental place this afternoon.”

Enjolras stands up too and watches as Grantaire puts the empty bowl and mug in the sink. Grantaire is about to enter the bathroom before he hears Enjolras call his name. “Yeah?” he replies, turning around.

Enjolras is coming up behind him and places his hands on Grantaire’s face. Suddenly they’re too close and not close enough at the same time. “One thing before you go,” Enjolras says, and then they’re kissing.

This is nothing like their first kiss, which was closed-mouthed and chaste, and in front of all their closest friends. This is just for them, and Grantaire is glad as he licks into Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras gasps just for him to hear. Enjolras retaliates by biting Grantaire’s lower lip and he lets out an impossibly dirty moan.

Enjolras breaks the kiss to laugh into Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire’s left feeling a little offended. “Something funny that you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says once he’s caught his breath. “It’s just, I’m kissing you, and you’re one of my best friends, and you just made a noise I never thought I’d hear you make! I’m so sorry!”

Grantaire grimaces. “That’s fine. Laugh at me all you want. Reaffirm my lifelong dream of being a stand-up comedian.”

Enjolras is serious then. “No, really. I’m sorry for laughing. This’ll just take a while for me to get used to. I mean, sorry if this sounds a bit creepy but I have been dreaming about this for a very long time.”

“Slightly creepy but I’m fine with that.” Grantaire smiles at Enjolras. “I take it kissing is okay, then?”

“Yes, very much so, can we continue doing it?”

Grantaire happily obliges.

\---

The square is completely full. Grantaire has to push past hundreds of people to reach the centre, where the rest of the Amis are setting up at the base of a statue. Enjolras, perched on top of the base, lights up as soon as he catches sight of Grantaire, and honestly Grantaire still can’t quite believe that _he_ can make Enjolras smile like that.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “You should’ve dragged me out of bed.”

“You were sleeping so deeply, I didn’t want to disturb you,” Enjolras replies, offering Grantaire a hand to help him onto the statue. The others coo as they share a quick kiss.

“You okay?” Grantaire asks softly, knowing how nervous Enjolras can get before his speeches.

“I am now,” Enjolras replies, squeezing his hand.

“Okay,” Combeferre says to Enjolras, “we’ve got you connected to this speaker, Bahorel’s one down that end,” he points to one end of the square, where Grantaire can just about make out Bahorel perched on a wall, “and Feuilly’s one over there,” he points to the opposite side, where Feuilly is standing on one of those round concrete things, scanning the crowd. “Turnout’s good, don’t you think?”

Enjolras nods. “Just be prepared for if things get hairy.”

“We always are,” Courfeyrac reassures him. He holds a microphone out to him. “Ready to go?”

Grantaire feels Enjolras give his hand one last squeeze. “Ready,” Enjolras says.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: sunshine-soprano


End file.
